Though Link was fully aware that Quentin's Reservoir Dogs had performed decently at the box office—made on a budget of $1.2 million and grossing over $4 million worldwide—he remained perfectly composed.
Having traversed into this world, he possessed not only the scripts and insights of hundreds of cinematic masterpieces in his mind but also a yet-to-be-verified golden cheat: the Box Office Subsidy System.
According to the system's message—left imprinted in his mind upon his arrival—it was a reward for his contributions to film art in his previous life. Any film in which he participated would be eligible for a minimum subsidy of double the box office gross (x2).
The more involved he was in the film's creation, the higher the multiplier.
However, aside from that single initial message, the system had never appeared again. Whether it truly existed remained uncertain.
Link decided to use Buried Alive to verify its authenticity.
"Director Link! Congratulations on besting the competition and taking home the Jury Grand Prize!"
At the Sundance Film Festival afterparty, the corpulent figure of Harvey Weinstein squeezed through the crowd, beaming, and shook Link's hand with gusto.
Weinstein, a legendary producer, director, screenwriter—and notorious film trader—had co-founded Miramax with his brother Bob in the late '70s. Their business model was simple: buy international films at low prices, re-edit them, and distribute them in the North American market—a kind of cinematic antiquarian who unearthed hidden gems.
In recent years, the Weinstein brothers had struck gold with titles like Cinema Paradiso, My Left Foot, and Sex, Lies, and Videotape, collectively raking in over $100 million and turning Miramax into a titan among indie studios.
Yet their ruthlessly low acquisition prices—and Harvey's notorious habit of slashing films to fit his vision—had earned them both admiration and animosity.
For example, the original Cinema Paradiso ran 173 minutes. The Miramax release? Just 123.
Though the film grossed over $50 million in North America and won Best Foreign Language Film at the 62nd Oscars, director Giuseppe Tornatore was incensed—publicly accusing Harvey of butchering his work and vowing never to collaborate again.
Still, Link greeted Harvey with a smile and shook his hand.
"Thank you."
"Director Link, have you secured a distributor yet for Buried Alive? What do you say to giving North American rights to Miramax?"
Weinstein wasted no time—exchanging only a few pleasantries before diving into business.
Link, still smiling, asked a seemingly unrelated question, "Mr. Weinstein, I heard Miramax was named after your parents—is that true?"
Harvey paused, then let out a laugh. "That's right. My mother was Mira. My father—Max."
"I imagine they must be proud of what you've built."
Link raised his champagne glass.
"Thanks," Harvey replied, clinking glasses and clapping him on the shoulder.
"I watched Buried Alive. It's a solid little indie—innovative, with definite market potential. I heard you made it for just $100,000. I'll offer $150,000 for the North American rights."
Link chuckled. "President Robert Shaye offered $400,000. I declined."
"Robert Shaye? He can't offer what I can. I can get your film to the Oscars—can he do that?"
Harvey bared his teeth in a toadlike grin, his tone aggressive.
Link swirled his champagne but said nothing.
Robert Shaye, head of New Line Cinema, led a studio on par with Miramax in both reach and reputation.
When it came to Oscar campaigns, Harvey had an edge—but Link wouldn't cave for that alone.
His priority was profits.
He sipped his drink and said slowly, "Mr. Weinstein, what do you project Buried Alive will gross in North America?"
Harvey frowned and raised a single finger. "One million—at most. Your film's concept may be novel, but it's set entirely in a wooden box with one actor, a flashlight, a phone. Stark. Oppressive. Who's paying $8 to watch that for 90 minutes? Not many, I'd wager."
His voice rang with conviction.
Link raised a finger of his own. "Your reputation for insight is well-deserved, Mr. Weinstein. I'd be honored to work with you. I have a proposal—care to hear it?"
"Let's hear it," Harvey said.
"With a guaranteed baseline release, if Buried Alive grosses under $1 million, I take nothing. If it surpasses that mark, I want 40% of the excess revenue."
"Forty percent?"
Harvey's brow creased. He had never met a rookie director bold enough to propose such a wager on his debut.
"You really believe in your film?"
"I do. I'm not afraid of risk. I'm sure you heard about my bet with Director Tarantino."
"Hah! A trophy for three films—you sly fox."
Harvey chuckled, half-admiring, half-sneering.
Link shook his head, raising his glass. "It was entirely voluntary. Just like this deal."
Harvey stroked his chin. "Forty's too high. No one in Hollywood offers that. Twenty. That's my final offer."
He was estimating a $4 million gross. That would mean giving Link $600k—still a bargain for Miramax.
"Mr. Weinstein," Link said, still smiling, "it's a wager. Risk is part of the thrill. Thirty-five percent. Out of respect."
They bargained. Harvey countered with twenty-five. Link held firm.
In the end, they met at thirty percent.
Harvey added one clause: If Buried Alive grossed over $5 million, Miramax would co-invest at least 20% in Link's next film.
Link countered with a payment clause: 50% of revenue within 45 days of theatrical closure, the remainder within six months.
Harvey agreed.
"Link, how did it go?"
Nicole Kidman approached, stunning in a black evening gown. Her golden hair fell over luminous skin; her statuesque figure and long legs kept most men at bay.
Link had selected her for Buried Alive based on three criteria: beauty, sex appeal, and serious acting chops.
Nicole had all three. Under lights, her alabaster skin seemed to glow. She was also Mrs. Tom Cruise—a media magnet. The perfect choice.
Initially, she'd been skeptical about an experimental indie from a first-time director. But the script's gripping narrative and emotionally challenging role won her over. She accepted the part—for a modest $50,000.
Link smiled. "Not bad. We sealed the deal."
"You're letting Harvey distribute it?" Nicole arched a brow. "His reputation's… complicated. Be careful."
"I will. Nicole—care to dance?"
"Of course."
She smiled and placed her hand lightly on his chest.
February 15, Thursday.
Buried Alive debuted in 24 arthouse cinemas across 13 major U.S. cities.
In its first three days, it grossed $328,000, with an 80% seat occupancy.
The critical response was overwhelmingly positive.
The story: A woman, knocked unconscious by her abusive, drunken husband, awakens inside a wooden box—buried in an unknown desert.
She wears nothing but a nightgown. She has a flashlight and a phone.
Calling police, parents, friends, she pleads for help.
Through these conversations, we learn she lives in a conservative small town. Her husband is impotent, alcoholic, and violent.
She's a lesbian. Her crime? Being discovered on a secret date with her lover.
Her family disowns her. The police mock her. Her husband screams at her. Her community shuns her.
And now—it's pouring rain. The police have failed. Her drunk husband forgets the burial site.
She must rescue herself.
In the climax, she pounds her fists—bloody, desperate—against the box.
The pacing? Masterful. The emotional pull? Relentless.
That final scene—those red-knuckled fists hammering wood—felt like blows against the audience's hearts.
Audiences left in tears. Some sobbed.
"Brilliant. The best film I've seen this year."
"Absolutely devastating—don't watch if you're easily triggered."
"One actress, one box, one film. Link is a genius. That Sundance award? Deserved."
"Nicole Kidman's performance is phenomenal—powerful, unforgettable."
"Honestly? I couldn't focus on the plot—Nicole is gorgeous. An hour in that box for us to admire. Thank you, Director Link!"
"Haunting and worth every minute."
In a CBS sidewalk interview, 80% of viewers gave glowing reviews.
15% praised the story but criticized the rough production quality.
5% nitpicked plot logic—why a phone and flashlight in the box?
Leading film journals—The Hollywood Reporter, Variety, and more—offered five-star praise.
Critics hailed it as a bold cinematic experiment, applauded its raw structure, its themes of abuse, sexuality, and societal rejection.
Nicole Kidman's performance was called her career breakthrough—still a beauty, but now a powerhouse.
Link was declared a visionary, a multi-talented auteur, and a future force in cinema.
Fueled by acclaim, Buried Alive grossed $3.37 million in its first week—screened in under 100 theaters.
It ranked #11 for the week, with a 37x ROI.
The media dubbed it the "Indie Dark Horse of the Year."
By its fourth week, it had earned $30.81 million, a 300:1 return.
Link and his film were now world-famous.
He was hailed as:
"The most promising director of his generation."
"Hollywood's rising auteur."
"A Best Director contender at next year's Academy Awards."
Meanwhile, Reservoir Dogs had opened to a modest $330,000—with total North American gross projected below $2 million.
"You win," Quentin grumbled over the phone.
"Don't be disheartened, Quentin. Reservoir Dogs is a fine film," Link replied warmly.
"Hmph. I don't need your pity. I'll beat you next time."
After the fourth week, Harvey paid Link in full:
A $10 million NationsBank check.
The keys to a silver Rolls-Royce Phantom.
And a mansion in Beverly Hills.
It was all his—and he accepted it without hesitation.
Nicole called to congratulate him and invited him for drinks.
He asked her over.
That afternoon, cloaked and discreet, she arrived at his apartment with a bottle of wine.
After a few glasses, desire blazed.
They collapsed into one another.
"You're amazing," Nicole whispered breathlessly, lying on his rumpled bed.
"What exactly are you referring to?"
"Your… your film," she smiled slyly.
Link chuckled and kissed her.
"Next year, I'll craft a role just for you. We'll go for the Best Actress Oscar."
"Really?" she gasped, eyes wide.
He nodded.
Nicole kissed him hard and straddled him again.
The storm resumed in the tiny apartment.
Knock, knock, knock! Knock, knock, knock!
A loud rapping shook the door.
"Who is it?!" Link barked in annoyance.
"Sir, are you awake? It's time to check out."
(End of Chapter)